50-48 #66: FEEL OUR WRATH, MOTHERFUCKERS
Oh, Riffel! Why hath thou forsaken us? And why, for that matter, hath thou forsaken the love of Troy and Gabriella? Heady betrayal, indeed.
Would that thou were my girlfriend, so that I might stab your dunderheaded father as he hid behind a curtain as I made a demonstrative, long-winded speech to my mother, exuding a subtle, almost Oedipal sexuality that disturbed us both. Then I would either feign crazy or BE crazy, all the while unsure of whether my wooing of you was sincere or calculating. And you wouldn’t know either! We would have
conversations like this:
50-48: Lady, shall I lie in your lap?
RIFFEL: No, my lord.
50-48: I mean, my head upon your lap?
RIFFEL: Ay, my lord.
50-48: Do you think I meant
country matters?
RIFFEL: I think nothing, my lord.
50-48: That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.
RIFFEL: What is, my lord?
50-48: Nothing.
Of course, you’d know I was talking about your cunt. You’d be on your way to finding a crazy all your own, but you’d still have the right mind enough to catch the pun. Eventually, however, you’d just start wandering around your room, offering imaginary columbines and pansies to anyone who would take them. And then you would fucking drown yourself.
“Good riddance!” I would say, as it would be clear to all involved that you totally deserved it. “Riffel was a real bitch,” everyone would say at your funeral. “I can’t believe they’re giving her that clown’s grave. That clown was awesome.” And then, even as they were INSIDE a metaphor concerning one of the world’s great literary lights, they would quote ANOTHER of
those auteurs, completely ignoring all anachronism. “A bitch is a bitch, whether poor or rich. I talk in the exact same pitch. Now the title bitch don’t apply to all women. But all women have a little bitch in them.” And, of course, by “bitch,” they would mean Riffel.
But alas, Riffel is not my girlfriend. And 50-48 is in the mood to dish out some punishment for his caustic rebuke of Troy, Gabriella, and US.
Normally at this point, 50-48 would rail in a terrifying manner about Ryan Mallet’s DUI arrest. It would provide you with yet another classic from Niggas With Attitudes:
CLICK, to describe our frustration with the uncle tomism in the Fayetteville Police Department. We would say something to the effect of: What cop in his right mind would arrest the star quarterback of the Razorback football team? A cop that should be demoted to crossing guard duty at some church school in Springdale, relegated to watching as little miniature christians crossed the street, clutching the WWJD bracelets their mothers got them for Christmas, touching each other’s asses in a latent display of what will later become their overt, rebellious homosexuality.
At this point, we’d probably move back to the whole “cunt” thing from paragraphs prior. We’d tell you that the Old English CWITHE meant “a womb.” The Anglo-Saxon –CYND meant “nature or essence.” There was the Old Norse KUNTA and the Old Frisian and Middle Dutch KUNTE. We would tell you that all of these languages are offshoots of the venerable Proto-Indo-European language, which thrived 4,000 to 6,000 years ago. Then there would be the Latin CUNNUS, meaning “vulva,” and CUNEUS, meaning “wedge.” We would patiently explain that all of these words melded somewhere along the way to give us the anatomical obscenity we know and love today. And we would tell you that it found its modern form in the 13th century, standing in valiantly for the female external genital organs. By the 1920s, we would tell you, it was also a term of approbation for lewd, lascivious, or otherwise reprehensible women.
We would say something like: Riffel is a lewd, lascivious, reprehensible woman. And he is a total cunt.
Eventually, we would then move to our craptacular basketball team, disgrace to Bud Walton Arena that it is. We would describe the visceral emptiness that comes from getting dump-trucked by Vanderbilt, and having the loss be so pedestrian and expected that 50-48’s distant little retarded brother, the
Vandy Sports Listserv, not even have the desire to call and talk shit. We wouldn’t call for Coach Pel’s head, but we’d come goddamn close. We would explain that we watch A LOT of college basketball, and we see freshmen-laden teams win games every motherfucking day. We are the WORST TEAM in the WORST major conference in America.
We would describe that time two days ago, when we strung that extension cord from our ceiling fan, then tried to hang ourselves to put us out of our misery. But then the shittiness of Hogball’s play moved through the television like a poltergeist, and managed to help us fuck that up, too.
We would use a lot of profanity. Because these things would upset us.
Then we would probably try to salve our wounds and yours by describing the Diamond Hogs, who have dropped a game to Kansas and one to Cal, but have otherwise remained perfect on the season. They have climbed to #18 in the rankings, and the prospects for even greater success are eminent. We would tell you that we’ve seen LSU’s disgusting new Alex Box Stadium, and we would assure you all that it is a typical LSU hellhole, as those people have no taste. Beautiful Baum Stadium at George Cole Field is and always will be the premier college baseball venue in the country.
We would stop a minute. Think about Baum and how much we love it. Then we would remember the anger and break you off a little
Lords of Acid. Or, no wait. We would use
this one instead.
But we’re not going to do that. Riffel decided to use the 50-48 comment section to rant against High School Musical and 50-48's perceived softness for deigning to present its relevant qualities to you, its cherished readers. Well, we here at 50-48 have decided to kick the softness up a notch. Instead of ranting about the police, or cunts, or basketball, or baseball, or the Lords of Acid, we will use our time to breakdown the “Ooh, Ooh, Itchy Woman” episode from
Hannah Montana, Season One. Brace yourself, sucka MCs:
PROLOGUE
Miley Stewart’s class plays a particularly cruel transsexual trick on her friend Oliver. Miley is your average 14-year-old student, but she is also pop sensation Hannah Montana—a girl leading a double-life. She is like that
Alias girl, without the burden of intricate international plots. Anyway, after the trick concludes, the class discovers it is going on a camping trip. Miley is eager, but her classmates are not.
ACT I
Scene 1
Because of friction with her classmates Amber and Ashley, Miley feigns illness in hopes that her father will allow her to stay home from school, thus avoiding the camping trip. He discovers her ruse, however, and she is forced to attend. Her father provided this advice: You lie down with dogs, you’re going to get up with fleas. (Shakespeare provided a similar device in
Hamlet. Op cit above rant about Riffel the cunt.)
Scene 2
The class finds itself in the woods. Miley easily sets up her tent, but the aforementioned bitches Amber and Ashley take credit for her work. An ensuing fight leaves Miley and her friend Lily punished, left to do the camp’s dishes.
ACT II
Miley’s frustration boils over, as she decides to seek revenge on those dirty whores Amber and Ashley. A feaux bear attack leaves Bitchfest 90210 locked in the port-a-john, covered in the piss and shit of their classmates. (“The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king!”)
ACT III
It turns out that Miley’s ruse put her in poison oak, which she discovers while giving an interview as her alter-ego Hannah Montana. She tries to cover her fundamental discomfort by pretending to create a new dance move, but it only serves as a penultimate embarrassment for her. At the end, she is left itchy and alone. She was rightly slain. She had lied down with dogs, and she had gotten up with fleas. Fortenbras enters, stage left, and he becomes the new King of Denmark.
The King is dead. All hail the King.
FIN
Suck it, Riffel.
50-48
Fuck Texas
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